


Frayed Ends

by chrissie0707



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Episode Related, Gen, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25941796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrissie0707/pseuds/chrissie0707
Summary: "Try not to set anything on fire before I get there," he'd said. Joking, but not. More importantly - "wait for me" - already knowing Dean wouldn't. Already knowing his brother was flirting with danger, with literal fire. Takes place after 5X14 "My Bloody Valentine."
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	Frayed Ends

**Author's Note:**

> I believe this one has been in the works for just under two years now. Hunkered down and wrote the last 1000 words this weekend.
> 
> I hope no one came here for rainbows and puppy kisses because...yeah, this ain't that kind of story. Takes place soon after 5X14 "My Bloody Valentine."
> 
> Also, fair warning - the format of this one is a little less than linear, but two alternating timelines splitting from the first scene, one moving forward and one moving backward. You know me. I'm always trying something different.

He backs away, watching with wide eyes as the flames creep toward him.

_Great plan, dumbass._

He's not moving as quickly as he can, as quickly as he should, and his eyes are already stinging, his lungs already seizing. Thick, stinking smoke is rapidly filling the hallway, obscuring his vision, hiding the route to escape. He coughs into his arm as he starts backpedaling faster, then spins and runs instinctively toward the double doors he entered twenty minutes ago.

He barely makes it out of the building before it blows.

The first whisper of cool autumn air grazes Dean's smoke-burned lungs, and then his feet leave the ground as the force of the explosion lifts and flings him forward a good fifteen feet, chucking him back to the ground chin-first and _hard._

Dean lies in the gravel, in the shadow of the warehouse, stunned, his head throbbing. He can't really feel anything else – yet – but his heart is beating like a triphammer in his chest and his ears are ringing.

He wonders if Jo's ears rang in the blast in Carthage. If she even lived that long. She hadn't been in great shape when they…when he left them there. The heat burning at his back begins to register, and he wonders if Ellen felt this same hot lick of hungry flames. Or if it happened too quick.

_God, please let it have been too quick._

His brother thinks he's dealt with the blow of losing them the way they did, thinks he's tucked it away into whatever necessary internal compartment Sam himself has, because he isn't talking about it.

His brother is wrong.

Gravel bites into Dean's palms as he pushes up onto his hands and knees with a groan he feels reverberating through his chest and throat but doesn't actually hear. The roaring blaze behind him should be all the encouragement he needs to get his ass in gear, because danger is coming in one form or another, but there's a weight in his heart that causes him to hesitate. Not to mention, he's had his bell pretty well rung. Wood cracks and metal squeals behind him as the remnants of the decrepit building are devoured by the growing fire. A muted but ominous _whoosh_ sounds from the depths as something inside ignites. Something probably not good, if the fresh tower of choking black smoke funneling above his head is any indication.

Dean's chest feels tight and hot, and a tickle builds in his throat as he makes his way to his feet. He stumbles, slipping in the gravel, and falls on his ass. He coughs into his shoulder as he stares, mesmerized, at the dancing flames.

He doesn't hear the Impala approach or jerk to a stop. Doesn't hear the _creak_ of the door swinging open or his brother's giraffe legs thundering toward him. Suddenly, strong hands twist in his collar and haul him to his feet.

"Dean!" Sam screams, white-faced and blurry. "What the hell, man?"

He guesses it's screaming, anyway; his brother's face is pale and his expression furious, but Sam's voice is muddy and faraway, barely audible over the persistent ringing in Dean's ears. "What?" He shakes his head and overbalances, nearly faceplants in the grassy gravel.

"What?" Sam repeats. He tightens his grip on Dean's jacket collar to steady him, then shakes him with the force of months' worth of pent-up frustration. "I said to wait for me!"

Dean swallows back his nausea and squints, trying to bring his brother into focus so he can get a good look at the kid. He knows it's more than frustration draining Sam of color, and more than stress. The confrontation with Famine isn't too far behind in the rearview, and Dean can see his brother is still dragging his heels.

_I can see how broken you are. How defeated._

Sammy wouldn't have been quick enough to outrun the sort of blast he had in mind. Hell, _Dean_ almost wasn't quick enough. He knows what Sam said, and he also knew exactly what he was doing when he left his little brother behind.

_You can't win, and you know it. But you just keep fighting. Keep going through the motions._

He opens his mouth to reply but ends up coughing again. "Actually," he finally rasps, his throat burning, "you said to try not setting anything on fire before you got here." He staggers away from Sam's support and waves a hand toward the blackened façade of the building. "I tried." Dean knows his brother might not be on top of his game since the impromptu demon blood detox, but he also doubts Sam is going to let him off on a technicality.

He's right.

"You _tried?_ " Sam throws his arms into the air, in a sort of comical show of dramatics like neither of them has been feeling up to the past few months. He turns wide eyes to the charred remains of the warehouse. "Dean, you completely blew the building up!" He returns his attention to Dean, and the angry, severe lines in his expression soften. "And nearly yourself, too, from the look of it."

"I'm fine," Dean says, almost by reflex and without having done any sort of proper self-evaluation. In addition to the tight chest and hot, raw throat, he's suddenly aware of muted aches demanding attention in his back and left knee. He stretches gingerly, wincing at a deep, sharp twinge in his lower back. He swipes blood from his chin and waggles his eyebrows. "Bet those ghouls are toast though, huh?"

Sam isn't amused. He sighs, too damned stubborn to admit it wasn't the worst idea Dean's ever had. "It's just a bit…overkill," he says, dropping his hands to his hips as he squints over Dean's head and wrinkles his nose. "Don't you think?"

"Aw, come on, Sammy." Dean forces a smile that feels like pressing on a bruise as he bumps his brother with an elbow. "You know there's no kill like overkill." He shifts his weight, and his grin fades into a grimace as pain flares in his lower back. He reaches for the site of the hot, uncomfortable pinch, and an "ow" slips past his lips.

"Ow? Ow, what?" Suddenly, Sam is breaking all the rules of personal space and feeling Dean up like an overzealous prom date.

"Shit, Sammy," Dean complains, twisting away from his brother's giant, groping hands. "Buy a guy dinner first." Without warning, the world sharply tilts, and he wavers with it. As the gravel underfoot rolls like ocean waves, he makes the ill-advised decision to close his eyes against a fresh swell of nausea, and gravity almost takes him down.

Sam huffs a tired sound and tugs him close again. After another moment of unappreciated probing, he locates the source of Dean's discomfort.

He's given no more warning than a quick squeeze of the shoulder, then the pinch in his lower back explodes in a rip of genuine, white-hot agony. Dean gasps and doubles over, his suddenly bloodless fingers tightening around his thigh. "Fuck, Sam," he says breathlessly. "What was that?"

His brother gets a fistful of his jacket and hauls Dean upright, serious-faced and waving around a thin shard of metal the size of a pencil. Obvious shrapnel from the explosion, its pointed end slicked two inches with his blood.

"This?" Sam raises his eyebrows and holds up the bit of metal like a prop. "This is why you were supposed to wait for me." He pitches the metal to the ground and runs his hands through his hair. In the distance, sirens wail. "Dammit."

"Whatever," Dean mutters. He knows he hasn't really been the poster child for Team Player lately, but Sammy was safe on the sidelines, the ghouls are dead, and this is a flesh wound. So, his brother can take his indignation and cram it.

Another tickle is building in his chest, climbing his throat. He turns away from his brother and coughs harshly and deeply, spits a coppery-tasting blob to the gravel. Sam puts a hand at his elbow to steady him as he hooks an arm around and feels out the rip in his coat, digs underneath the thick fabric and discovers a warm, damp spot on his t-shirt.

Dean hisses and withdraws his hand, studies his red fingertips in the moonlight. _Yup. Flesh wound._ He chokes back the next round of coughs, swallows what feels like a mouthful of knives. "Ow."

***

_"Got 'em."_

Dean is nearly whispering, not wanting to be overheard as he identifies the ghouls from a safe distance. That's what Sam hopes, anyway. Except his brother has been…scaring him lately.

"You're sure?"

_"Oh, yeah. Sons of bitches are holed up in some rank warehouse outside of town. Off, uh, Evans Avenue."_

He catches the hesitation, the quick moment in which Dean considered not telling him where he was. Sam swallows as the pit in his stomach widens, the one that has been gnawing at him since the showdown in Carthage. The one that feels like knowing something is going to happen but being unable to do anything to stop it. The one that feels like déjà vu.

_Come by and pick me up first._

Dean didn't take the car when he left Sam in the motel room, just a well-packed duffel. Said he needed some air, some space to think, and that he didn't mind doing the recon.

He's been doing everything he can to avoid Sam for days. Ever since Sam was well enough to sit at the table and start asking questions about what happened with Famine.

"Besides," Dean had said as he tugged on his jacket without looking at Sam, "you still look like crap."

Sam still _feels_ like crap, and he let his brother go alone. He had already forced his way onto this trip, and he figured Dean wasn't going to stray very far on foot, wasn't going to cause too much damage.

_Great plan, dumbass._

"Okay," Sam says into the phone. His heart is in his throat, and he regrets allowing his brother to walk out the door. "Wait for me."

It takes Dean too damn long to answer, and in the space between, the pit in Sam's gut becomes a chasm.

_"Yeah."_

"Dean." His heart picks up the pace as the silence yawns on. " _Dean._ "

_"What?"_

"Just…try not to set anything on fire before I get there. Okay?" He means it as a joke.

Then, after Dean hangs up, Sam realizes that he doesn't.

***

He shouldn't have let his brother out of his sight. Two hours. That's how long he left Dean to his own devices.

_I'm not gonna…I just need some air, Sam. Some space, to think. That's all._

To think about what? Sam had arrived in time to see the way his brother was staring at those flames, the way he wasn't moving away from the oppressive heat of the blaze he'd set. An easy way to rid this town of a den of ghouls, sure. But Dean shouldn't have done it himself. Not right now. He hasn't been the same since Famine. Since Carthage.

Dean is understandably stiff and sore, and concerningly hoarse. He's also smeared head to toe in soot and grime, and stinks like smoke. In addition to the puncture wound in his back, Sam's exploring fingers have uncovered a shallow, weeping scrape on the back of the jackass's hard head, but his brother swears up and down that he was out of the building long before anything blew – despite all evidence to the contrary – and that he never lost consciousness. He's tired and slow-moving but doesn't seem to have a concussion. He hasn't lost enough blood to crack the top twenty and the ghouls are dead, so Sam supposes it wasn't the worst idea his idiot brother has ever had. Not that he'll ever say so out loud.

He stuffs Dean into the passenger side of the Impala and crams his stinking canvas coat in the trunk. They sit for as long as Sam dares, allowing their respective adrenaline and annoyance to fade, quiet and tense and smelling like a chemically dipped campfire as the sirens draw nearer. Every few minutes, Dean shifts and winces, sucks in a raspy breath, or buries a nasty sounding cough in his shoulder. Each time Sam's knuckles whiten around the wheel. Finally, he asks "you okay?" in a low, serious tone, because he can't help himself.

"Yeah," Dean answers too quickly, too hoarsely.

Sam sticks the sound, and the answer, into his mental filing cabinet, somewhere between _trust_ and _knowing better._ He twists the key in the ignition, knowing they need to move. Beside him, Dean coughs into his shoulder, and Sam rethinks his appraisal. "You sure you're – "

"Yes, Sam. Christ. I'm – " Dean's scratchy voice catches in his throat, and he thumps a fist against his chest. "Fine," he finishes, gravelly and entirely unconvincing.

 _Try not to set anything on fire before I get there._ Joking, but not. More importantly, _wait for me_ , already knowing Dean wouldn't. Already knowing his brother was flirting with danger, with literal fire.

Sam sighs as he shifts the car into drive. "Yeah. You're fine."

***

They pump the figurative brakes after Famine, stay in Sioux Falls for nearly a week.

Sam doesn't remember half of it, not in more than gauzy snatches. He spends the first thirty-six hours in Bobby's panic room, railing in senseless desperation as he works through the effects of withdrawing from the demon blood, and the next eighteen in a dead sleep. By the time he's able to remain awake for longer than an hour at a time, his brother's expected restlessness has given way to genuine cabin fever. Dean is wide-eyed and too pale, and he and Bobby are snappish with each other. None of them talk about the blood, the Horseman, Lucifer.

On a rainy, chilly afternoon five days after he killed Famine, five days after Dean shoved him into the panic room, Sam bores of watching his brother pretend he isn't there while he tinkers with the Impala. He dumps a stack of books onto the wobbly coffee table and settles in for some recreational reading. Head aching mutedly, he rereads the same page five times before realizing it, raises a hand to scrub at his strained eyes just as Dean passes through the study with his duffel slung over one shoulder.

His brother is moving quickly but quietly, obviously thinking Sam was still asleep in the other room. Obviously looking to sneak out of the house without intervention or explanation.

"Hey." Sam perks up, announcing his presence and slamming his book closed. "What's – " He narrows his gaze at the bag. "Are you going somewhere?"

Dean startles guiltily. "Uh, yeah." He shifts his weight, his dark gaze roaming the room as he refuses to meet Sam's eyes. "Think I found a case. Gonna hit the road for a few days."

"What?" Sam pushes up from the couch, biting down on his lip as his arms tremble. "I'll come with you."

Dean looks over sharply. There are pronounced shadows under his dull eyes and the yellowing bruises left by Famine's goons aren't doing him any favors. Sam himself still feels weak and drained, but it hits him like a punch to the gut that purging the demon blood from his system has taken just as much a toll on his brother. A fresh wave of guilt washes over him, the kind he thought was behind them.

"It's just a couple of ghouls, Sam. Nothing I can't handle. Besides, you're still…" Dean once more averts his gaze, scratching at the ugly, scabbed-over welt at his temple.

This is more than secondhand stress Sam is seeing, more than having to watch his brother suffer. With Sam through the worst of it, Dean clearly sensed an opportunity to run, to put some distance between them before he was well enough to notice his big brother hadn't been as unaffected by the Horseman as he wants them to believe.

Sam tried to ask about might have happened, that first morning he plopped at the table feeling mostly human again, and Dean had brushed him off. They haven't spent a lot of time together since, but Dean's been a bit too fine for his liking. He's still hazy on the details, on the exact way things went down between his brother and Famine. Cas hasn't been much help, but then again, Sam's always gotten a weird vibe from the angel, and he knows Castiel's allegiance ultimately lies with Dean. In any case, he seems to think that if Dean wants Sam to know what was said before he busted in, he'll tell Sam himself.

They all know he never will.

With the demon blood out of his system, and having rid himself of that slithering, unfortunate craving, Sam is starting to see some things more clearly. Things like these shadows under his brother's eyes, the result of a combination of obvious stress and sleeplessness, but also something more. Something Dean is desperate to avoid talking about.

Sam knows his best play is to keep his brother in sight and hope the son of a bitch doesn't do anything too stupid. "Dean – "

"It's just a couple of ghouls," Dean repeats without looking at him. "I'll be gone two days, tops."

"No, Dean," he says firmly. "You're not leaving me here."

His brother sighs and drags a hand down his face. "Fine," he says hollowly, but not like he agrees; like he just doesn't have it in him to fight about it.

And that's just about the most terrifying thing Sam's ever seen: Dean Winchester without any fight left in him.

Sam releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, one full of relief, fear, and tension. He nods. "Just give me ten minutes." Already he's afraid that he's asking for too much, too long. Afraid Dean will be long gone before he gets packed up. But he's leaning against the door, fiddling with the Impala's key ring, when Sam clomps down the stairs seven minutes later with his hair mussed and shirt unbuttoned.

He looks up and gives Sam an appraising once-over, and Sam presses his lips together, tries not to appear winded. "Let's go," Dean finally says, turning to yank open the door.

Before Sam can follow his brother out of the house, he's summoned by a sharp whistle. Bobby emerges from the kitchen and wheels his chair to a stop in the hallway, laying his elbows on the armrests like he's gearing up for a lecture.

Sam preemptively rolls his eyes, hefting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. "I'll be fine, Bobby," he says, then winces at his choice of words.

"Not what I was gonna say." The older man narrows his gaze, jerks his chin toward the door Dean's just exited. "Keep an eye on him, will you?"

Sam swallows. So, it's not just him. Outside, the Impala's engine growls to life. He purses his lips and nods. "Of course."

***

The drive back into town feels longer than it is. Sam keeps the radio turned low, listening with increasing unease as his brother's breathing becomes more labored, likely having inhaled whatever noxious fumes had engulfed the building in the wake of the explosion he set. A quick sideways appraisal confirms a sheen of sweat at Dean's temple and lines of pain at the corners of his mouth as he shifts on the bench, slumping against the door.

He flexes his hands around the steering wheel, worries his lip. "Dean – "

"I'm fine, Sam," his brother rasps, voice like sandpaper against brick. "Really. I just – "

" – blew yourself up a little," Sam finishes with a curt nod. "Because you decided to take on a den of ghouls without backup."

Dean doesn't argue, just exhales a weighty, exhausted sound that seems to have been wrung out of him.

Frustrated and tired, Sam puts more boot into his stomp on the brake than is necessary when he reach the motel. The Impala's sudden, pointed stop wrests a pained grunt from his brother.

"Bitch," Dean mutters hoarsely.

Before Sam can apologize, his brother has already rotated stiffly to throw a leg out onto the cracked, neon-splashed asphalt. Dean uses the frame of the car to pull himself upright, then begins limping toward their room.

***

The first time Sam feels strong enough to pull on his shoes and wander downstairs, his brother's eyes light up, his gaunt, too-pale face transforming in the span of a blink.

Dean jumps to his feet and gets Sam a beer from the fridge, even pulls out a chair for him.

It looks like the man has de-aged five years in less than a minute, and Sam hates that he's about to ruin it with some serious talk. "Dean, man," he says as he takes the seat. "I'm…sorry." He's had a lot of time to think over the past couple of days, and _sorry_ doesn't touch what he is feeling.

His brother averts his gaze. "Don't be." A greenish bruise extends from a welt at Dean's left temple, coloring his forehead and cheek.

The sight of the mark, the bruise, tugs at Sam's memory, but everything from that night is still a confusing, shadowy mash of voices and images. He knows Dean was there, but he's having a hard time bringing any of the details of the showdown into focus.

Dean throws up a vague hand, staring pointedly at a spot over Sam's shoulder. "Wasn't you."

He bobs his head, knowing his brother is right. But still, he should have been stronger when the first urge struck. Should have fought harder against…

Sam's gaze flicks up to his evasive, bruised brother. He frowns and sits back in his chair, picking at a corner of the label on his beer, having not even taken a drink yet. "What about you?" he asks, as casually as he can manage.

Dean takes a long pull from his own bottle, expression stony. "What about me?"

Sam leans forward and boldly says, "Dean, Famine messed with everyone in town. Even Cas."

Dean shrugs and continues to very obviously not look him in the eyes. "I don't know what to tell you, Sam."

His heart trips in his chest. "Dean – "

"You've gotta be starving, huh?" His brother slaps a palm on the tabletop, scoots his chair back with a loud scrape against the floorboards. He finally looks to Sam, raises his eyebrows. "You want some bacon? I'm gonna make some bacon."

***

Sam wakes to the sound of violent hacking. He shoots up in bed and squints into the darkness. The bedside clock shows 2:15 in bright red numbers, and faint moonlight outlines the shape of his brother sitting on the edge of his own bed, his shoulders shaking from the force of his coughs.

"Dean, hey." He snaps on the light between the bed. Already, his heart is lodged in his throat, tripping wildly with worry and guilt.

By the time they turned in, Dean's voice had been scratchy and painful to hear, though he seemed to have gotten the cough under control. Sam had taken a more thorough look at the puncture wound and cleaned it out, deemed the gash on his chin not quite deep or wide enough to warrant stitches. He had gotten some painkillers into Dean before he crashed, and antibiotics, because Sam's not wild about the thought of that random bit of metal from a grimy warehouse impaling his brother. Dean had been worn out and pained, his pallor gray even with the soot and smoke washed away. He might not have been talking but he was _breathing_ ; he wasn't this bad off.

Dean tries to wave him away, but his eyes are glassy, his face is red.

Sam had to watch his brother strangle from the inside once already, not too long ago, and he can't do it again. He tosses the covers aside and hurries into the bathroom, fills a plastic cup with water from the tap. He hands the cup over to his struggling brother, who is now wheezing more than coughing, like he woke with his breath caught in his throat. "Catch your breath," he tells Dean, not knowing what else to say. "Just breathe."

Dean nods and sips the water, doesn't pull away when Sam grips his knee.

A smear of red on the bedsheets draws Sam's gaze, and he doesn't ask before lifting the hem of his brother's t-shirt. He's dismayed to see Dean has bled through the bandage he'd applied, and the rumpled covers show that whatever sleep his brother managed, it wasn't restful.

He didn't want to allow Dean out of his sight, wanted to _be there_ if the jackass did anything stupid. He wasn't, and now his brother is hunched over in obvious pain, not talking, struggling for each breath.

Sam knows he's dealt with worse, but right now, this feels like enough. It feels like too much.

Sam doesn't know how to fix this Dean, doesn't think he's equipped to handle it on his own. They've spent years looking after each other, patching each other up in the aftermath of a hunt. He's laid hundreds of stitches, reduced a half-dozen shoulder dislocations and set broken bones, sat all night vigils, and got his brother through infections numbering in the double digits, but he doesn't know what to do with these wounds. The ones he can't see. The ones he can't even identify, that have been lingering unbandaged for weeks.

He came out of Carthage unsettled, with a heavy heart and a dozen new questions about himself and his path. His purpose. Dean left with more obvious damage, with a concussion and two cracked ribs. But it was the dullness in his gaze that really worried Sam – that _frightened_ him. The obvious sense of loss that has weighed on his brother ever since.

Sam's fingers tighten reflexively around Dean's leg as he thinks about taking his brother to a hospital, because he doesn't know what all Dean inhaled back in that warehouse, but it clearly wasn't good. Dean hadn't been brushing him off when he told Sam this hunt would only take him a couple of days. They're only three hours out of Sioux Falls; if they leave now, they can be back at Bobby's by daybreak. He nods. Bobby will know what to do.

He looks back to his silent brother. Dean has closed his eyes and leaned back against the headboard at an awkward angle. Each shallow breath he draws is whistling audibly through his abused throat, his probably compromised lungs.

Sam pats his leg, waits for Dean to peel an eye open before offering what he hopes is an encouraging smile. "Let's head back to Bobby's. Okay?"

Another concerning whistle, a swallow that brings a wince to his brother's pale face. Dean opens his mouth but seems to think better of it. He doesn't put up a fight, doesn't protest, doesn't say he'll be fine and tell Sam to unbunch his panties. He just sags against the headboard and nods.

A chill runs through Sam as he stands to find a pair of jeans for his brother. He packs everything else up himself. It isn't much, and it doesn't take long. They're tucked into the Impala within fifteen minutes.

***

If Cas weren't there, he wouldn't have been able to get Sammy into the panic room without knocking him out. Little brother's wildly swinging arms clip Dean in the already throbbing temple as they manhandle him over the threshold.

As soon as Castiel pushes shut the heavy iron door, Sam begins whaling on it. Dean flinches with from each strike of his brother's fist. His head is swimming and his legs are numb, and with very little intention in the motion, he falls against the wall outside the panic room, laying his head back with a hollow _thunk._

He thought he knew low. But this…

"Dean! Let me out!"

…this is low. Sam locked in the panic room, again. Detoxing from demon blood, _again._ This is rock-fucking-bottom.

Cas is looking at him funny, and from the top of the stairs, Bobby tries to pull him away from the panic room. "It's freezing down there, Dean."

But he won't go. Not with Sam…

He locks his knees and shakes his head, nearly puking from the motion. He sticks a hand against the wall and closes his eyes until the nausea subsides. "I'm good," he says, voice thick.

"Dean, you're in no condition to…you don't need to listen to this, kid."

"I said I'm good."

They leave him alone there, though he doesn't feel much understanding in the gesture. More like pity.

A salt-blasted iron wall stands between Dean and his brother, but it might as well be a canyon. His temple throbs with fresh pain in time with the slam of Sammy's fists, and the banging goes to work chipping away whatever is left of his pathetic resolve.

_That's one deep, dark nothing you got there, Dean._

Bobby was right; it's freezing in the basement. Dean doesn't know how long he stands there, but his legs begin to tremble, until they refuse to hold him up any longer. He sinks to the chilly concrete floor, tents his legs, and drops his aching, heavy-feeling head to his knees and listens to his little brother scream for help.

***

On the porch, Sam keeps one arm held out behind his sagging, wheezing brother. When Bobby answers the door, eyes wide with surprise to see them back so soon, he lifts a shoulder. "Thing went a little sideways, and I wanted a second opinion. We were nearby." As if there is anywhere else for them to go, or any question they would find their way back here once the job was done. Since learning of the looming apocalypse, since Bobby stuck a knife in his own gut to save Dean from Meg and her cronies, they haven't strayed too far for too long.

Sam herds Dean inside, mindful of his injured back. "Someone," he says with exaggerated aggravation, to cover his obvious worry, his _fear_ , "thought it was a good idea to set fire to some kind of chemical warehouse. No clue what he inhaled, but, uh…"

Bobby nods along, expression serious. "How's his breathing?"

Dean pulls away from Sam and makes a halfhearted face, offended at being the topic of conversation instead of part of it. But when he opens his mouth to complain, all that comes out is a pathetic squawk.

"Not great," Sam replies honestly. "But not as bad as, uh…" Again, he thinks of Dean arching against the bench seat, every breath sounding like it might be his last as it slips through his nearly rushed larynx. Like a chaser, he thinks of the demon blood coursing through his veins, the uncontrollable tremor in his hands, the power he felt when he killed Alistair. Suddenly, his mouth is dry, his cheeks warm. He pushes a trembling hand through his hair, struggling to force the memories away. "Not too bad."

Bobby narrows his gaze suspiciously. "And you?"

"I, uh, wasn't there." He winces, remembering the last thing the man said to him on his way out the door. _Keep an eye on him, will you?_ And Sam had said, _of course_ , then let his brother go alone to search for the nest when Dean demanded space.

He should've known better than to give that to his brother.

There's a flash in the older man's gaze, a brief hint of anger and betrayal reserved just for Sam. He knows that he deserves every bit of it. Maybe they should have locked _Dean_ in the panic room the moment he mentioned taking on a hunt, the second he hinted at taking off on his own.

Bobby turns his attention to Dean, who averts his own gaze and presses his lips together, probably to keep from coughing. "Probably best to keep from trying to talk for the time being," he says. "Rest up, and we'll see what info we can find about what was in that building."

Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam nods, catches the older man narrowing his gaze at the gash in his brother's chin, the fresh bruising coming to color on his face. "He's got a – " Sam gestures to the back of his own head – "in back. And, uh, in his back," he offers, in the interest of full disclosure, taking advantage of his brother's silence. "It's pretty deep. Need to keep it from getting infected. We had some meds in the trunk, but, uh…"

"I'll rustle up the good stuff," Bobby says, rotating his chair and pointing it toward the kitchen.

Dean clears his throat, manages a raspy, paper-thin, "you guys need me for any of this?"

Bobby jabs a finger toward the lumpy sofa. "Sit," he orders, though his voice is softer than when he was speaking to Sam. "Rest." He gazes around the kitchen, taps his thumb on the armrest of his chair. "Wasn't expecting you boys back so soon. Gonna need more grub."

"I'll go," Sam says, reluctant to leave but knowing the task ultimately falls to him. They've depended on Bobby a lot over the past few months, and he's already dealing with a whole new world of his own, confined to his wheelchair. Still, he hesitates, not wanting to leave his brother behind, not wanting to allow Dean out of his sight for even another ten minutes.

Bobby gives him a discrete nod, and Sam steps back onto the porch, moves stiffly back to where he just parked the Impala.

He keeps telling himself that it's not a matter of trust, his not wanting to leave Dean alone, but he doesn't know what else to call the gaping, gnawing pit in his gut. He would call it irrational, if he hasn't already felt like he's been losing Dean since Carthage. If they weren't _here_ because of that same empty, haunted look in his brother's eyes. The fight gone out of him. Leaving Sam behind, waiting for the fire.

***

Cas finds him still sitting on the floor, hours later.

"I'm fine," Dean says, before the angel can even get a word in, using the wall to get back to his feet. His body is stiff, muscles locked up, and the wall is the only reason he manages a mostly standing position. He moves away from Castiel as the angel steps forward, but can't escape the reach of his suffocating, undeserved concern.

"Let me out of here!"

Dean flinches as Sam yells, his brother's voice cracking from hours of screaming. "Please! Help!"

"That's not him in there," Cas says. "Not really."

He swallows. "I know," he replies, voice hollow and, obviously, unconvincing.

"Dean, Sam just has to get it out of his system. Then he'll be – "

"Listen." Dean pulls away from the wall. His head is still pounding, and the dirty concrete rolls beneath his feet. "I just, uh…" Just can't stand hearing how any of this is going to be _okay._ How it's going to be _fine._

_You can smirk and joke and lie to your brother, lie to yourself, but not to me._

Sam won't be _fine._ None of this is _fine._

He can't rustle up a smirk, a joke, a lie. "I just need to get some air."

_I can see inside you, Dean._

He ignores Bobby on his way out of the house, shoves open the back door and stumbles down the short steps onto the grassy gravel path that leads to the junkyard. He stops short, breath catching, like he's struck an invisible barrier. He knows it's just his subconscious not allowing him to move too far away from Sam, from his cries for help, which have followed Dean outside and are rebounding through his battered skull. Then he's struck with something else, a realization.

He can't do this. Maybe never could. Never even stood a chance.

Chest tight, Dean looks up into the vast, starless sky, an endless stretch of nothing, and feels the last dregs of his hope evaporate. "Please," he says, voice cracking, breath clouding in front of his face. "I can't…I need some help."

_Inside, you're already dead._

"Please?"

No help comes. Not from above, not from anywhere. Cas has learned his lesson, stays in the house and allows Dean his air. His space.

Resigned to the stillness, the darkness, Dean drags frozen fingers down his face and wipes the tear tracks from his cheeks, then goes back inside to resume his vigil.

***

Bobby has no end of errands to send Sam on, clearly doing Dean a solid by keeping the kid too busy to do what he wants, which is to sit in the room across from him giving him deathbed eyes. He's not on his deathbed, not literally, anyway.

They called around under the guise of reporting on the sudden, inexplicable warehouse fire and found out that nothing Dean managed to choke down is at serious risk of killing him, though it will still be a few days before his voice returns in full, or the tightness in his chest and throat ease. Bobby's got him on a strict regiment of antibiotics and anti-inflammatories, and the two of them are being way too obvious about not leaving him alone, like they've got him on some goddamned suicide watch.

For now, at least, Dean is alone in the study. He stretches gingerly and adjusts his position on the couch, back still sore and head throbbing mutedly. He's supposed to be doing some research for Bobby, but he can't focus, keeps smelling charcoal, and sulfur.

"You know," Bobby says, wheeling into the room, "this is sort of nice. The quiet."

Dean frowns, not getting it right away. When he does, he rolls his eyes.

"No, I mean it. Gives us a chance to talk."

He cocks his head and glares pointedly.

"Gives _me_ a chance to talk," Bobby amends. "You can listen." Dean sees the bottle of whiskey and glasses balanced in his lap. The older man lifts the bottle of whiskey by the neck. "Drink?"

Dean accepts the glass Bobby pours him and immediately swallows a mouthful. The whiskey burns, scorching his tender throat and leaving him gagging. When he looks up, blinking away hot tears, Bobby's own eyes are twinkling. Dean returns the mischievous look with a heated glare usually reserved for his brother.

"How 'bout this instead?" Bobby takes the whiskey from Dean's hand and replaces it with a mug of hot tea.

Dean curls his lip but sips from the mug, eyeing the other man suspiciously. He doesn't know exactly what is next out of Bobby's mouth, but he guesses he's not going to want to be any part of it.

Bobby stares at him long enough to make him squirm, then he rubs the fingertips of his free hand against his chin, taps the whiskered surface.

 _What?_ Dean wants to ask. With the burn in his throat, he settles for quirking an eyebrow, which communicates his curiosity but not quite his annoyance.

Bobby holds his gaze a beat longer, doesn't blink. Then, he sighs. "You're scaring your brother, Dean."

He swallows, wincing as he forces out, "what did he – "

"He didn't say anything," Bobby cuts in, in a way that means he doesn't want Dean to try to speak. "Didn't have to." He sighs, settles back in his chair. "You two've been taking care of each other for a while now, and you were raised and trained by the most stubborn, paranoid son of a bitch I ever met. You've both been settin' bones and sewin' stitches since you were, what, twelve?"

Dean tips his temple, communicating _close enough._

"You've been to Hell and back – " as though he needs reminding – "and you've got the constitution of a damned horse." Bobby narrows his gaze. "You've taken a few bad hits, kid, but you've always bounced back like a rubber ball."

Dean really, really hopes the man is closing in some kind of a point. He could do without reliving his greatest hits.

Bobby shifts once more in his chair, leaning forward. "Your brother didn't bring you here for a second opinion, Dean." He touches a hand to his own throat. "Not about this, anyway."

His leg twitches. He doesn't want to hear this, feels suffocated, every instinct screaming at him to jump up from the couch and fucking _run._ He stares at Bobby, not moving, every breath hitching his chest and irritating his throat.

"Your brother needs you, Dean. We all do. Get that through your fool head. You're not…you're not a damn _piece_ on a _board_ ," Bobby spits. "You're not collateral damage. And what happened to Ellen and Jo isn't your doing."

Dean bites down on the inside of his cheek and points his gaze at the wall, refusing to look at the older man. It's not even that he doesn't _want_ to hear this. He doesn't deserve it.

"I don't wanna have this conversation with you again, Dean." Bobby sighs as the rumble of the Impala's engine sounds from the driveway, Sam returning from whatever mission he'd been sent on and interrupting the moment. He sits back in his chair and eyes Dean carefully. "But I expect we will, anyway, because don't usually get what I want."


End file.
